Fic: A Lost Boy, Chapter 23

Title: A Lost BoyAuthor: AngiePenPairing: Liam Neeson/Orlando Bloom, minor Liam/Johnny Depp, plus a few other pair-ups among the supporting characters.Rating: NC-17 overallSummary: Slave Orlando's been taken and the kidnappers aren't interested in ransom. And of course Master Liam's thundering rage is only at the personal insult, that someone would disrespect him by daring to touch his property.Disclaimer: I don't own anyone you recognize. I know nothing about their social lives or sexual activities, more's the pity. This is fiction, period. It is done as a labor of love and I make no money from it.Notes: 1) Set in poisontaster's Kept Boy universe -- FAQ here. See Chapter 1 for more notes.2) This story just passed 50,000 words. [flail]

He shuffled along in line with a bunch of other slaves, some old and some young, some calm and some panicking, some beautiful and some who definitely weren't going to end up as body-slaves. On either side of the line there were staffers, guards, handlers -- whatever they were -- scowling at all the confused slaves. They dealt with any behavior they disapproved of quickly, using electrified batons.

Behavior they disapproved of included not moving, moving too fast, moving in the wrong direction, staying silent when spoken to, speaking when not addressed, and yelling or screaming no matter what. Minor infractions got a poke, which delivered a quick shock. It was painful but didn't do any lasting damage, which David learned when the slaves ahead of him held up the line and he got shocked along with them when the guards got things moving again.

At first David had just thought his sick headache was from hunger; he hadn't had any dinner and the meal before it had been... well, a while before, and it'd only been a muffin and a banana. He'd been stuck in a tiny cell after his transfer and left all night, then rousted out in the morning and shoved in with the other new slaves, groggy and frightened and disoriented, with a tiny pin memory on a chain locked around his neck. His first stop had been a station where a Commerce employee -- who looked dull and zoned out, and did his job with zombie-like boredom even first thing in the morning -- took the pin off him and slotted it into his desk unit.

Data scrolled up a tiny screen, too quickly for David to read, but no one asked him to so it didn't matter. The unit hummed, then spat out a small chip, about the size of his fingernail, into a slot. The Commerce drone inserted the chip into some kind of hand unit while one of the staffers with a baton tapped him on the arm.

David flinched back, turning away from the shock. The drone shoved on his other shoulder to keep him rotating until David was looking completely the other way, then pressed the hand unit against his back, right next to his spine at shoulderblade level. David felt something else sting him, then felt his chip burrow under his skin with a sharp, sliding pierce. It sat there stinging and itching. He tried to reach for it out of reflex and got another poke with a wand, even though he couldn't get his hands anywhere near the spot.

The next station, after another wait in the slow-moving line, had a fat pillar with straps bolted to it next to a work table loaded with smoking metal cannisters. David caught a bare glimpse of a long-handled implement with a smaller rendition of the Commerce seal on the end before he was pressed up against the pillar, with his face in a padded depression. He couldn't breathe and tried to struggle, but a padded shell of some kind clicked into place around the back of his head to hold his head still. His wrists were strapped into thick cuffs around the other side of the pillar, so he was hugging it, and two flat straps were fastened around him at shoulder and rib level. It was all done in just a few seconds by multiple sets of hands.

He couldn't get a breath to yell, couldn't fight or struggle. His legs were free to kick, but his upper body was so secure that it stayed still; all his kicking got him was a more prolonged shock. Just as he was sure he was about to black out, he felt something searing cold pressed against the right side of his neck. It held there forever while his heart slammed to escape his chest and his flesh melted around it, then it pulled away. The pressure was gone but the frozen burn remained.

The straps loosened and two sets of arms hauled him away from the pillar and gave him a shove forward, to the back of yet another line. He tried to raise his hand to his neck out of reflex, but every time his hands got above his waist he was shocked, and he quickly learned not to do that. He was gasping for air, dizzy and hurting and disoriented and he fell to his knees on the concrete floor. Half a dozen more baton shocks got him back onto his feet again.

The slaves in this line were all leaning on one another. Most were sobbing in pain, or gasping as they tried not to. There were at least a dozen wet-stained splotches on the concrete around the end of the line where slaves who'd just been branded had vomited and then cleaned it up; David saw one spew his guts a few places behind him, then have a bucket and cloth shoved into his hands.

He considered letting his own stomach go; at least he'd get a few minutes of kneeling down without being shocked for it.

Some time later, his line wound past a station where another Commerce staff person swiped a layer of some cool, stinky lotion or ointment or something onto his neck with a spongy instrument. It looked kind of like the sponge-type paint applicators he'd seen... where? On television, maybe?

Another slow, shuffling wait, with only two people vomiting along the way, and he was directed to strip and drop his clothes into barrels. Shoes, socks, pants, shirt, briefs... he skipped the undershirt barrel because he wasn't wearing one. He skipped the belt, purse, jewelry and miscellaneous accessories barrels too. Everyone else seemed to have more things on them than he did, to be wearing watches or rings or earrings, to have brought along a wallet or a cell phone, pictures or keys. Everything went into the barrels.

He was handed a pair of cheap elastic-waisted shorts and a plain T-shirt, both in bright red, both stamped with the Commerce seal in black, with "SLAVE" curved over the top; the T-shirt had the seal across his chest and the shorts across his butt. There was no question what he was, coming or going, and even if he was stupid enough to try to escape, he'd attract attention wherever he went -- either from wearing bright red clothes that said he was a slave, or from being naked.

Slaves who needed medication were split off into another line. David didn't, so he stayed in the main line.

The next station was food. David got a thick slice of crusty bread spread with something that looked like it was trying to pretend it was butter, along with two apples and a pint of milk. He was pushed along into a bare room, at which point the line dissipated. Most of the slaves were leaning against a wall or sitting on the floor to eat; he crossed his feet and lowered himself down to sit.

The bread was decent, although his mother's was better. He ate carefully at first, afraid it might come right back up again. By the time he was about halfway through, in slow, carefully chewed bites, his stomach felt a little less chaotic. He finished the bread, then opened the carton of milk and took a slug before biting into an apple. It was past its prime, mealy and not very sweet, but it was edible and he discovered he was hungry.

By the time he finished, he wasn't full but he wasn't hungry anymore either. His stomach felt kind of delicate but not actively roiling. That was an improvement and he was willing to live with it. It looked like part of his sick had been hunger.

His head still ached. He wished he dared ask for something to take for it, but he knew instinctively that that'd be an incredibly bad idea.

A few minutes after he'd finished, a staff-guard-whatever came by and tapped him on the shoulder, then pointed with her baton to another door, this one with a huge trash barrel next to it. David climbed up to his feet and headed over to it, dumped his trash and passed on through. On the other side of the door was another line.

Mr. Duncan wasn't actually an awful owner, as owners went. At least not yet. He fed Kevin the same meals he ate himself when he was home, and let Kevin raid the fridge when he wasn't. The alcohol was off limits, but that wasn't exactly unusual, and that soon after being bought, Kevin wasn't stupid enough to try to sneak any.

His new owner didn't try for sex, either. Of course, he wasn't supposed to, but Kevin knew that didn't always stop them, so having an owner who followed the rules was good.

The work wasn't hard, either. Once he learned where everything was and how Mr. Duncan wanted things done, Kevin could finish his work, the secretary type stuff and the chores both, by early afternoon. He waited a few days, just in case there were any gotchas lurking around, then, after one of the most boring weeks he'd ever dragged himself through, he decided to get to work on contacting that Lord Neeson guy.

Kevin spent another four days' worth of leisure time searching for one of the free-anon e-mail sites. He found a fresh one, and created an account. The feds stomped on those sites as soon as they found them and there was no telling how long this one would last; Kevin could only hope it'd be around long enough for him to get his business done. If not, he'd find another one and continue, hoping his Lordship was smart enough to catch on when some new mail ID wrote to him and picked up their conversation.

Dear Lord Neeson, [no sense not being polite, at least to start]

I'm a slave who was stolen. While I was held by the thief, I met another stolen slave who said he belonged to you. He said his name was Orlando, and that you'd want him back. If he was telling the truth and you do, write back and we can talk about terms.

He thought about it for a few minutes, then signed it,

Ben

Heck, he wasn't allowed to use that name anymore, so it'd make as good an alias as any.

He read it over again, fixed a couple of typos just because, then hit the SEND button.

Now to find something to do to keep himself from checking his remote mailbox every five minutes.